


The Adventure of Christ Church College

by cinnamon_lyons



Series: Dark Days: Holmes and Moriarty [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1880s, Blood and Torture, Holmes is a bit of a bastard, M/M, Sadism, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:50:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2294168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_lyons/pseuds/cinnamon_lyons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty meet as students in Oxford in the early 1880s, as narrated by Moriarty. This series is partly inspired by the comment 'There but for the grace of God goes Sherlock Holmes', and was back story to role play involving Holmes' dark past.</p><p>Part of a Holmes universe created by myself and others many years ago, in which Holmes and Moriarty lived together for a number of years before Holmes met Watson. The series has a loose plot following their lives. Holmes is callous to the point of experimenting with some enjoyment with anyone around him (and, as we shall discover, he is also something of a voyeur). Moriarty is openly a violent sadist, and has a particular fascination with blood.</p><p>With thanks to Pep, Sage and H, my former partners in crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of Christ Church College

**Author's Note:**

> As the story is narrated by Moriarty, there is little or no moralising: violence/rape/torture are pretty much normal to him and related as such here. He does, however, possess the sense of entitlement many in his class and position would have held, and also exhibits many of the ideas and language of his era ('sexual perversion' for example was one of a number of synonyms for homosexuality).

I became intrigued with Holmes the first time I ever laid eyes on him. He sat - as, I later discovered, he so often did - in a corner of the smoky Christ Church Common Room, chewing absently on the stem of a pipe as he flicked through the piles of books and papers that surrounded him. There was something about him that immediately attracted my attention. He was so *different*, it seemed, from those fey, pathetic, floppy-haired undergraduates I was used to. It was not simply his physical appearance - although that was pleasant enough - but his very bearing and his manner. He exuded a gentlemanly confidence and charm such as might be appropriate in a man some twenty years his senior - and this was not merely due to the pipe clamped between his teeth! What's more, although he was clearly engrossed in his work, his eyes were keen and sharp so that I fancied that he somehow knew that I was looking at him and forced myself to turn away. But I couldn't get him out of my mind.

"I've never noticed that fellow in the corner before." I said casually to an acquaintance of mine, one Derek Connolly. Connolly laughed.

"That's because you rarely deign to enter the Common Room." He informed me, "Why, that leather chair so belongs to him that they should engrave his name upon it!"

"And what name might that be?" I asked, the lack of concern in my voice entirely at odds with the interest I felt.

"Holmes." Connolly told me, "Sherlock Holmes, I believe. Among his friends - which, I might add, are few and carefully chosen - he usually omits the first of these titles." I nodded, and Connolly's brow furrowed. "Why the interest?" He asked. I shrugged.

"No reason. He just... fascinates me, that's all." Connolly laughed, although it seemed to me that there was a bitter edge to the sound, for he had known me long enough to guess just where my interest lay.

"I can assure you that this "fascination" will be entirely one-sided, James." He warned me, and the familiarity of his manner riled me to the point of irritation.

"You forget yourself, Connolly!" I snapped, and stalked from the room in a fury that I could hardly explain even to myself.

*

From that time onwards, now that he had been brought to my attention, I seemed to see Holmes everywhere. It transpired that he shared my interest in chemistry, although from the praise heaped upon the man by those who knew him, one could assume that to be just one of many talents he possessed. And yet, despite everything I heard - all the people I met who claimed to know the man well - I never seemed to find an opportunity to approach him. Indeed, it appeared that Holmes himself was entirely unaware of my existence: the closest I got to him was when he strode past me in the courtyard or corridor, without so much as a glance in my direction. His manner both infuriated and aroused me in equal measure. More than once, returning to my rooms in irate annoyance after Holmes had once again failed to notice my careful smile in his direction, I would be compelled to remove the raging erection from my trousers, pleasuring myself helplessly to thoughts of the man that haunted my dreams and reality in such equal measures.

The end to this period of desperation was no more satisfying. Forgetting Holmes for a rare moment, I sat in a bookish Oxford coffee house, picking at a pastry while I read animatedly about my favourite area of study: theoretical mathematics. I was surprised by a voice above me.

"I hope you do not object if I sit here?" The voice said in cultured, yet faintly accented tones. "It seems all of Oxford is determined to visit this particular establishment this afternoon." Although I had never heard his voice before, I knew instantly by whom I was being addressed.

"By all means." I answered, raising my head without, I hoped, showing any particular surprise or interest, as he eased himself into the seat opposite me, placing a volume of Pasteur's on the table. "You have an interest in the sciences also?" I asked, indicating both his choice of reading material and my own, this time determined that I would not pass up the chance of conversation.

"Indeed." Holmes said, and a faint smile seemed to play across his features. "But do not let me distract you from your food. You must be hungry if you have not eaten all day." I could not help but start. Was this merely a clever guess?

"How do you know I haven't eaten?" I asked him, trying to keep my voice light.

"I know many things about you, James Moriarty." Holmes said, that same vague smile flickering briefly over his face. "I know, for instance, that you think poorly of the company of your peers, and often prefer to keep your own. You have a brilliant mind, but are easily distracted from your work. However, you were engaged in writing of some kind until late last night and hence rose at an hour well after your usual time, and were in such a hurry to make your morning's lectures that you had, of course, no time to think of food." I frowned, although something inside me found this interest of Holmes' flattering - arousing, even.

"You have been following me all day?" I asked him with a smirk. Holmes put down the teacup that he had been raising to his lips, his eyes cool and serious.

"On the contrary." He said, "In these few moments seated opposite you I have deduced all this and more!" I snorted, somewhat sceptically, but still found myself forgetting both my pastry and my work in my interest.

"And how, may I ask, did you come to all your conclusions?"

Holmes steepled his fingertips together.

"The irritation that crossed your face at the disturbance indicated that you had little interest in company - what's more, you are the only person in the cafe sitting alone. The book you are reading is not an easy one for an undergraduate, and yet you were quick enough to allow me to distract you from it. As to last night - why, the ink from your work is plain on your fingertips and, as you had not taken the time to wash this off - and, more tellingly, neither had you bothered to shave, although your appearance is smart in every other aspect - it would suggest that this time was in short supply."

I laughed, for I was beginning to find Holmes' observations more intriguing than unnerving.

"I feel a congratulation is in order, Mr Holmes." I told him, "But there is one thing that is not visible from my immediate appearance, and therefore I must ask - how did you come to know my name?"

This time it was Holmes' turn to smirk.

"By the same method with which you discovered mine, of course. I asked it of someone who _did_ know!" And, with that, he drained his cup, rose to his feet and strode from the cafe.

*

And so my first meeting with Holmes both tantalised and infuriated me in equal measures: infuriated by its brevity, and tantalised with the knowledge that, despite his cool and detached manner, Holmes _had_ nonetheless been interested in me enough to go to the trouble of discovering my name. This, then, would suggest that our meeting in the coffee house had not occurred by mere chance. This smarted, however, for I could not help feeling that Holmes was one step ahead of me somehow. Having calmed myself by buggering some naive young Magdalen student into a state of near oblivion, I racked my brains to think of some way to put Holmes and myself on a more equal footing.

In the end I did nothing more than take the initiative by sending a message to his residence in the hands of some local urchin. My note said simply, "Tonight. M." but I was hardly surprised when, that evening at a little after 9pm, I was disturbed by a knock on my door. I *was*, however, somewhat taken aback when the caller turned out to be a stout man in his early 30s, the collar of his rough jacket turned up even though the evening was mild. I could not help but scowl, although I quickly recollected myself.

"I apologise for my manner." I explained graciously, "But I am afraid I am expecting someone, and I rather thought you might be he." The man cocked his head.

"Would that be a "Mr. H"?" He asked, in a voice as coarse as his dress. I tried not to betray my bewilderment.

"Has he sent you here?" I asked the fellow in some confusion. Without entirely answering my question, the man said.

"I've been asked to pass on a message for you. I hopes it makes more sense to you, sir, than it does to me!"

"Well, what is it man?" I demanded, growing impatient. My visitor frowned.

"The shortest message I ever been asked to deliver!" He told me. "Nothing more than "Breakfast. H.""

The fellow clearly expected money for his pains, although it was highly likely that he had already been paid by Holmes. However, I was too angry at the frustration of my plans to do any more than slam the door in the man's surprised face. Indeed, it was perhaps lucky for him that I did, for if he had crossed my threshold, he may have got a little more than he bargained for, such was my anger. Instead I strode to the bureau, quickly pouring myself a stiff brandy. So, Holmes was determined to keep the upper hand, was he? Well, I would not go! I would refuse his invitation and I would never seek him out again! Furiously I drank glass after glass of the warm brown liquor until at last I was able to do nothing more than sleep.

Of course, despite my protestations, I found myself the next morning at

8am making my way to the opposite end of the college, to those much sought after rooms usually reserved for those in their final year, where I had been assured Holmes was to be found. Yet, when I rapped sharply on his door, I received no answer. Perhaps he was still asleep? It shames me even now that I waited until the hands of my pocket watch had crept beyond half past nine before I realised that, while I remained there, Holmes was never going to appear.

This time, of course, I was still more incensed by Holmes' behaviour and determined that, no matter how attracted I might be to the man, I would no longer play his ridiculous little games. This, however, turned out to be far harder than I had hoped. It was barely a week after this occasion that, upon entering the cafe in which we had first spoken, I saw Holmes seated at that very table we had occupied before. I was torn between turning and stalking for home and confronting the man who had infuriated me so much. Of course, the latter instinct won over and I strode to his table, sitting opposite him, unable to mask my scowl. Holmes very carefully finished the page of the book he was reading, and just as carefully closed it before looking up, one eyebrow raised as if wondering what I could possibly have to say to him that would be of interest. Although my scowl did not fade, I managed to keep my voice reasonably calm.

"Well, you've been leading me a merry dance!" I said bitterly. The corners of Holmes' mouth twitched.

"I rather thought you were the type of man who enjoyed the chase..." He said slowly, and I found his manner so curiously seductive that it was a long moment before I could speak again, my anger increasing with the knowledge that Holmes still seemed to have such power over me.

"Don't presume to know everything about me." I said, my voice cold. Holmes cocked his head.

"Has it occurred to you that I may have my reasons for failing to meet you?" He said. Of course, the fact that I wanted to believe these words infuriated me still more.

"The thought did briefly cross my mind." I told him, "But I discarded the possibility just as quickly." Holmes laughed, and then shrugged, finishing his tea almost delicately before rising to his feet.

"In that case I imagine you would prefer to be left alone." He said, and I could only stare after him as he strode from the cafe.

*

 

I was not used to being so utterly rejected by another man, and I was galled beyond measure by Holmes’ behaviour. I gave up all pretence of work and left the café almost immediately after Holmes, making for one of the most disreputable gin houses in Oxford and drinking myself into a near stupor. Not so much, however, that I was unable to find myself a dirty but attractive local lad, poor enough that no one would believe his story were he to share it. And, after a few drinks and the promise of money if he did as he was bade, I lured him back to my room. As always the boy changed his mind all too late. I found his protests particularly amusing, bound naked as he was face down on my bed. I ran a finger slowly between his buttocks and along the crack.

“You’ve never gone so far as this before, have you?” I asked with a smirk. The boy tensed furiously, his anus tight and unresponsive to my questing finger.

“Lemme go now?” He pleaded, “Lemme go and I won’t ask for no money! I-” But his words were cut off in a squeal as I plunged my finger viciously past his protesting sphincter.

“Quiet!” I hissed, the knife in my hand jerking automatically to the back of the boy’s neck so that his cry was cut off in a strangled yelp. “I won’t let you go yet, but if you keep silent I promise not to kill you.”

In the end, despite my threats, I had to gag the boy anyway. As the knife sliced away my frustration in his tender young flesh it seemed he could not help himself screaming and, although the walls were thick, I was well aware that my neighbours here were far greater in number than in my father’s house, way out in the country as it was. And so, as I buggered his now beautiful blood-slick body, the boy could make no more noise than a muffled whimper into the cloth covering his mouth. I, meanwhile, almost forgot for a time his very presence as the world melted away along with my earlier irritation until my orgasm was a strange moment of calm as I ejaculated, groaning, into fiery redness.

*

I did not stop thinking of Holmes, however. Instead, as I regained control of my thoughts the possibility struck me that perhaps Holmes himself had some secret such as the one that had staggered from my room still bleeding into his filthy overcoat. And, were I to uncover something he didn’t want anyone else to know, it would give me some power over the man. My studies forgotten I set to this task with all the vigour and determination of which I was capable when something truly grasped my interest.

Ultimately, however, I cannot claim the credit for discovering Holmes’s clandestine past. It was, in fact, Connolly who introduced me to the young man who was to prove instrumental in my enquiries: at a time, indeed, when I found myself thwarted by the unresponsive nature of Holmes’s neighbours and the lack of information in the College’s records. No doubt Connolly was attempting to ingratiate himself with me, as he did from time to time, for it was with a nervous eagerness rather than his previous sarcasm that he approached me.

“You might be interested to meet Baker here, Moriarty,” He said with an obsequious smirk, “His room is directly opposite that of your friend Holmes!” I looked up, every pretence of the disinterest I usually showed in Connolly’s presence forgotten.

“You know Holmes?” Baker asked, and the edge of dislike in his voice was obvious.

“I have a passing acquaintance with him, yes.” I agreed. Baker looked somewhat relieved, throwing himself down inelegantly on a chair beside me.

“Tell me,” I asked conversationally, “How did a first year like you manage to obtain such a room?” Baker laughed meaningfully.

“Well, *there*’s an interesting story!” He declared. I raised an eyebrow.

“Oh yes?”

Baker grinned.

“Well,” He began, leaning forward towards me in the pose of a storyteller, “Originally I had rooms outside the College, but I asked to be transferred. Initially I had no luck, and I was becoming quite resigned to my fate when I was suddenly told that one of the third year students had unexpectedly dropped out, and so a particularly good set of empty rooms were available. Of course, I jumped at the chance! Still, I was interested as to why this fellow had left the University so near to completing his degree. It was hard to find out anything beyond mere rumour, but the interesting fact was that all of those rumours pointed to a disturbance connected to Sherlock Holmes.”

“Holmes?” I said, startled. Baker nodded.

“All I could gather was that there had been some kind of scandal,” He went on, “Most people were aware that something had been hushed up, and that the fellow who left had been an obvious scapegoat. No one, however, seems to know exactly what happened, but, rather interestingly, Holmes has been wary of me to the point of rudeness since I moved in. Perhaps he fears I will discover something!” Baker’s story was here interrupted by a laugh from Connolly who clapped me cheerfully on the shoulder.

“So, your dear Holmes may have some deep, dark secret!” He said. I raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed.”

*

It took ingenuity, cunning and a certain disregard for the law – none of which I was lacking – to unravel the mystery of Holmes and the young man who had once lived opposite him. The most important clue, however, was something Baker himself was easily able to tell me – the fellow’s name, Charles Hargreaves. I pride myself on the fact that it was just two weeks after first learning of the suspicions which surrounded Holmes that I sent him another of those cryptic missives we were wont to exchange, although this was rather longer than our previous correspondences.

“I had the pleasure of spending last weekend with one Charles Hargreaves. I believe he is a mutual acquaintance of ours. Perhaps you would care to visit me to reminisce? I shall be in from 8pm tonight. M.”

Holmes didn’t appear at my door until shortly after the clock struck 9. Clearly he resented being forced to pay me a visit, yet was unable to stay away while still unsure just how much I knew about him. I smiled amiably as I ushered him in.

“Ah, Holmes my dear chap, take a seat! Would you care for a drink?” Holmes stood rather stiffly by the mantelpiece.

“I would rather you simply got straight to the point.” He said coldly, although I could tell that he was nervous, and found myself revelling in the position of power I now held.

“The ‘point’?” I asked him, as if bemused.

“Yes, why you wished to see me.” Holmes snapped, his obvious irritation a delightful contrast to the cool aloof manner he usually exhibited. I laughed.

“Why, I simply thought it would be pleasant to spend an evening together. There was nothing in my note that insisted upon your presence, was there?” I reminded him. At something of a loss Holmes sat down heavily on the couch, finally accepting the glass of wine I offered him. Perching on the arm of the couch I gazed down at him, my amusement obvious.

“Now, I wonder why the mention of Charles Hargreaves would make you so touchy…?” I mused. Holmes scowled, although his tone was akin to his usual cold manner.

”If you didn’t already know you wouldn’t have invited me here.” He pointed out.

”True, true.” I agreed amicably, “It’s an interesting story nonetheless, is it not? A young man in his final year of University, who although showing no brilliance has never appeared to neglect his studies, suddenly drops out. No records are made as to his reasons and the fellow is removed from Christ Church College by his father that very same day. What’s more, none of his peers seem to know what has happened, although rumours hint at some kind of disturbance linked to the student in the room opposite Hargreaves, one Sherlock Holmes.” Holmes smirked slightly.

”But that’s all it is, your little tale. A collection of rumours and hearsay!” I leant forward to refill my glass, proffering the bottle to Holmes before answering, wanting to draw this out as long as possible before surprising the man with my evidence. I was enjoying having the upper hand far too much to relinquish my hold quickly.

“I mentioned that Hargreaves was a mutual acquaintance, did I not?” I continued, “Well, having heard this little story I determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. And so I took the liberty of tracking down Hargreaves and visiting him at his parents’ house. He was a little surprised at first, but I soon won his confidence.” I could not help allowing myself a grin, licking my lips as I recollected just how I had managed this. “After that Hargreaves was more than happy to tell me everything. I believe he is currently rather bored – his father watches his every move to check that he is not slipping back into his old bad habits. Which were, after all, his undoing. It was his lack of discretion that both drew you to him and made him an easy scapegoat for a College that didn’t wish to lose one of its most promising students in a scandal that would, moreover, blight the name of Christ Church itself.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. It seemed that, despite his fear he was almost beginning to enjoy this confrontation.

“And what “scandal” might this be?” He asked.

“On Monday November 7th of last year the police were called to Christ Church College by a porter who had found the body of a young student, naked and apparently dead, in the College grounds. The student was subsequently discovered to be merely unconscious and taken to the Radcliffe Infirmary where he recovered enough to tell police how he had come to be in such a position. It was a mistake, of course, for Hargreaves to have told his story for, had he agreed to their suggestions that he had been attacked by an unknown assailant he would even now be completing his studies. But the young man was angry, confused and not a little scared. And so he confessed that he had willingly entered the room of a fellow student – yourself – with the intent to engage in certain “unnatural practices”. This admission immediately put Hargreaves at a disadvantage in his claim that you later tied him to a bed and strangulated him while raping his previously willing body. As a matter of course the police were obliged to investigate this distasteful affair and, according to Hargreaves, found various evidence that supported his story.

“Here, however, the University took over. Hargreaves had long been a thorn in the side of the College with his seeming inability to keep his sexual perversions quiet, and he was subsequently informed that were he to press for justice everything possible would be done to make life difficult for him, ending in his own public disgrace and humiliation. If, however, he simply left Oxford, the entire matter would be forgotten. With no “victim”, the police would be persuaded to suspend their investigations.

“Forced to accept by both the University and his own father, who was unwilling to shoulder the burden of shame that such a case would put on the family, Hargreaves did as he was told and everything was successfully hushed up. So much so that it appears that all College and police records relating to the event seem to have mysteriously disappeared.” I paused, which gave Holmes the opportunity to laugh derisively.

“Then where is your evidence?” He asked, “Why should you believe this fiction of Hargreaves’?” I smiled.

“Whether I, or anyone for that matter, believe it or not, were it widely known that any suspicion had fallen upon you your reputation would certainly suffer. Besides, there was one item of proof which had been over-looked, presumably because he has since moved to a different College – the porter’s log-book.” I unfolded a sheet of paper with a flourish.

“Let me read to you his entries for the period – and, I might add, this is of course not the original document, which is quite securely protected!” I grinned again, clearing my throat.

“November 7th. Found body in grounds. Happily discovered to be alive and taken to Radcliffe’s. Identified as student Charles Hargreaves.

“November 8th. Hargreaves still in hospital. Made accusation to police against Sherlock Holmes, also student. Evidence suggests shocking crime likely to be true.

“November 10th. Poor Hargreaves today expelled for Christ Church. Made protest to Dean about miscarriage of justice.” I paused, looking up at Holmes.

“The porter was transferred to Balliol College some two weeks later.” I said. There was a long moment of silence, before Holmes stood up, cocking his head.

“So, James Moriarty, are you blackmailing me?” He said with impressive calm. I rose also, stepping towards him.

”I don’t want your money, Holmes. God knows I have more than enough as it is!” Holmes smiled faintly.

“Then what _do_ you want?” He asked, fixing me in his gaze. I smiled slowly.

“It might help if you took your clothes off.” I told him, not breaking eye contact for an instant. Holmes’s own smile grew wider, mirroring mine.

“Why don’t you take them off for me?” He said. I licked my lips, mouth suddenly dry, aware that this was the moment I had long been waiting for. Gazing into Holmes’s eyes I became so lost for a second that I barely noticed my body moving until suddenly my lips were locked against his, hands grabbing at his body, tongue pushing frantically into his mouth. It was a while before I noticed that his kisses were just as urgent as mine and I pulled back, panting, staring into Holmes’s now sparkling eyes.

“You’ve been wanting this as much as I have, haven’t you?” I said. He grinned, although his manner was still faintly supercilious.

“Since the first time I ever laid eyes on you.” He said. “You really didn’t need to go to this much trouble!”

“Still, it was entertaining, wouldn’t you agree?” I said, but I didn’t give him a chance to answer, for my arms were again wrapped round him, mouth searching out his, pulling at his clothes as I practically dragged him towards my bed, weeks of repressed lust finally bubbling to the surface. As we tumbled together onto the mattress, Holmes managed to reach out to push me briefly away.

“Calm yourself, Moriarty,” He said, sounding amused, “We have all the time in the world, you know…” I swallowed, managing with great effort to slow my frantic movements as I picked at his shirt buttons with clumsy fingers, finally managing to push the fabric aside, hands running wonderingly over his chest. I sighed faintly, and then his hands were on me also so that we undressed each other simultaneously, finally wrapping our naked bodies around each other, cocks and tongues clashing with urgent lust.

And then I was rolling Holmes onto his back, fingers pushing their way between his legs. His body tensed.

“Easy now!” He laughed, almost uneasily, snatching my hand away, “What makes you think I’ll let _you_ take _me_?” I grinned breathlessly down at him.

“Because I’m the one who’s blackmailing you?” I suggested. Holmes raised an eyebrow, and his laugh sounded rather forced.

“After this, of course, you won’t be able to reveal anything about me for fear that I will allow certain of your own personal habits to come to light.” He reminded me. I shrugged carelessly.

“Then we’ll be on even ground, my dear Holmes. But just now…” As I spoke I had been unscrewing the lid on a jar of lubricant, and began to smear the substance over my erection, still grinning down at Holmes as I lowered my hand once more to slide between his legs, fingers searching up inside him. After a moment or two of indecision Holmes spread his legs fractionally wider, helping my fingers deep inside him until they rubbed against his prostate. I allowed him just a few brief seconds of pleasure, watching his mouth open in a soundless gasp before I drew my hand back, gripping his shoulders as I eased my cock into his now greased arsehole.

It would not be exaggerating to say that that night with Holmes was the most exquisite experience of my time thus far at University, no matter how many other young men I may have buggered and bled. As I thrust steadily into him, his body jolting beneath mine, hearing the faint cries escape his lips from time to time as he forgot his determination not to enjoy our encounter, I felt that Sherlock Holmes and I fitted together somehow. As friends or enemies, it seemed that our paths would be entangled from this moment forth: that we would continue, perhaps forever, to intrigue, infuriate and arouse one other.

As I lay gasping on top of Holmes, my pleasure spent inside him, Holmes gazed up at me through half-lidded eyes.

“Perhaps next time you will allow me to take you.” He said. This was not a question. And, despite myself, there was a part of me that looked forward to it.


End file.
